I was enraged at being alone on the outside of all that love and lust.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.
She did not leave him for the sailor. So why should he be angry?
In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
Why do girls want to cheerlead? Don’t they know it objectifies women?
We imagined the train routes through the heart of the country.
All these barns with their busted spidery limbs strewn over the lupine.
He touched her bruise more softly than an elevator button.
I rented a house in the woods of East Hampton as a form of therapy.
Betsy recoiled, understanding instinctively what was to come.
People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.
I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.
I would chase it to the shores of the lake where the killer waited.
I felt awful about imposing on him, but I was desperate to see the Derby.
The blade was buried to the hilt in the outside corner of his left eye.
Order gardening clogs, then realize you feel like a runaway nurse.
i was a wild thing down by the river, quiet like wild things are.
Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.
Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?
I’ve got other plans. And they don’t center on ringnecks.
Unwall the summer in blue threading, gift of someone who loved me.
I will have to remember the man’s hooded eyes as he watches.
Tonight’s moon has dropped its shawl. I’m in the yard again, waiting.
It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.
His eyes, dark brown and unwavering as he delivered the details.
The everlasting shines through in the threshold between worlds.
Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.